


Road to Home (is Loud and Bumpy)

by puffvisionary



Category: SHINee
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mostly Gen, Past Child Abuse, eunhyuk pops out a tiny bit here, jinki is the best though, jinki is whipped, jonghyun is a good bro, kibum and jonghyun are almost twins, kibum has a potty mouth, kibum is also a good bro, minho has ptsd, taemin doesnt intend to only be a bro, taemin drinks a lot of soda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffvisionary/pseuds/puffvisionary
Summary: Choi Minho had his ability to trust people beaten out of him. But along the way, life helps him get it back.





	Road to Home (is Loud and Bumpy)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a 30-page long oneshot about Minho (not) dealing with trauma. I don't know when I wrote this. I found it in my old folder, collecting dust. Enjoy!

There are some things in life that Minho just cannot understand. Some of them are pretty common _(Why do rainbows exist? Where do babies come from? Why do flowers smell good?)_ while some of them are a little bit more complicated _(Why didn’t his father ever visit him? Where did he go? Why did his mother drink so much?)_, but despite that, he never question them out loud. He tried; when he was a mere boy of five, asking his mother this and that, but that only resulted in her getting annoyed and accidentally hit Minho too hard with a ruler (he still has the scar on his left rib to mark the moment).

So he never asked no more.

This time, it’s no different. He does not ask when he’s being ordered inside, greeted with warm—albeit sad—smile of his mother’s older sister, and the surprised-but-pleased one from the uncle he never met before. Minho does not ask why he’s here, why his mother suddenly sent him away to _live with a relative_ (it was not planned, too. He simply comes home from school to find a letter with some money on top of it. The letter is a clear instruction for him to go to Seoul and heads to the listed address, no questions asked).

Minho bows deep in front of them, and blinks as his aunt pulls him up and close to her smaller figure, hugging him tighter than anyone ever did (not that he’s had a lot of hugs, but he remembers that one time when he was 8, fever dragging his consciousness down while his mother hugs his tiny, shivering body and cries. Minho is not sure if its real or just a fever-induced dream, but he likes to think positive) before pulling back and patting his cheek. Her eyes glisten with tears, and for a moment Minho is taken aback by how much she looks like his mother.

“I’m so, _so_ sorry, sweetheart,” she says in a broken voice, and Minho frowns, not knowing what happened. He looks at her in question, but does not open his mouth. Her crying gets louder until finally her husband pulls her into his embrace—and Minho’s heart ache for it; flashes of dreams, the image vividly showing his mother being hugged by a tall, kind-faced man he could call ‘father’—to calm her down. His uncle smiles at him, too, but there’s something so close to pity in his eyes.

“Your mother sent you here to live with us. Are you okay with that?” he asks, as if Minho has any choice. He nods mutely, and the man’s smile seems less sad now “We just got the news, Minho. We’re so sorry to hear it. They’re looking for the bastard now. She deserved better—”

Minho’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, telling his uncle to shut the _fuck up—_

It hurts to know. It does. But it hurts more because he could see it coming. Minho may not ask a lot of questions, he may not pry, but even he cannot miss the yelling and screaming match his mother had with those men a few days ago. It was about money, and drugs, and whatever it was his mother got herself involved with.

The strap of his duffel bag feels like its cutting through his palm, and Minho lessens his grip. He stares hard at his uncle, and curses himself for letting a tear fall when his aunt reaches him again and hug him. He hates it. He hates this. He does not know what he hates the most; the fact that his mother is dead, or the fact that he’s became so weak.

“Its okay, Minho,” she whispers, and her hands are clinging to his shirt, her sobs rocking him “It’s okay to cry.”

Minho chokes on his own breath, and speaks up for the first time since he stepped into the house “No,” he croaks, and when he looks up, his uncle’s eyes are pained “No, it isn’t.”

*

They give him a room to himself. It’s a big, spacious room, decorated in white and blue and many, many expensive things that Minho is too scared to touch. It _is_ a nice place, but he isn’t used to nice places. He isn’t used to everything that’s going on here.

(He isn’t used to the normal family atmosphere, too.)

But they gave him this room and those clothes (“They might be too short and not to your liking, but Kibum and Jonghyun are shorter and have weird taste, so until we can buy you some other clothes, these will have to do.” Minho does not know who Kibum and Jonghyun are, but he assumes that they’re his cousins) and he’s thankful because otherwise he’d be sleeping in an empty apartment with no food and no one to talk to and absolutely no prospect of future.

Rummaging through his bag, Minho pulls out some of his precious belongings, and places them on the bed. They are not much—his journal, his stubborn-as-shit alarm clock, his one and only childhood photo—but they’re his, and Minho feels a little better at the sight of them.

He decides to leave it there and goes to shower, letting the sharp droplets of water wash off his tears and grime and dirt from travelling. As he washes himself off—scrubbing a little harder than necessary—Minho cannot help but think that he’s also washing off the remains of his old town, his old life, off him.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

*

The first time he meets Kim Kibum and Kim Jonghyun is about two days after he’s settled there. His uncle is just so eager to sign him up to every sport team available and is chattering nonstop about the choices to Minho over their breakfast, while his aunt chimes in occasionally with her opinions to help him choose and her plans for his first week here. Minho goes through it all with a small, hesitant smile and a gnawing question as to why they are so nice to him.

(There’s also a question as to why his aunt ended up with such a nice guy, and his mom landed a douchebag, but he, as usual, does not voice this out loud.)

“Kibum and Jonghyun’s school is a little strict, but that’s to be expected. It’s a private school, so there are a lot of expectations,” his uncle explains, cutting through his French Toast. Minho nods and swallows his mouthful of scrambled eggs. “But also a lot of opportunities. It’s really a good school, and if you’re having any difficulty, we can always find you a tutor. You don’t mind, do you?” Minho shakes his head, wondering why his uncle always asks him if he’s okay with things; he never has nice things before, does he really think Minho would refuse such opportunity?

“It’ll make things easier, too. You’ll have Jonghyun and Kibum to accompany you. Well, mostly Kibum, since Jonghyun is a senior,” his aunt places a glass of orange juice in front of him, ruffling his hair, and Minho feels ten again (not that his mom ever did this when he was ten).

“They’ll probably be back today—”

The three of them turn at the sound of overly-cheerful greetings and eager footsteps, and the next second, Minho’s sides collided with two bodies, trapping him in the middle as they sit on his either sides. “Hi,” one of them beams up at him, and Minho nods politely. “_Testosterone_, thank _God!_ I cannot live with more chick flicks and shopping sessions.”

Minho blinks and contemplates whether or not he should say thank you. However, this worry only lasts about half a second, because then, his other cousin pulls at his arm and forces him to look him in his cat-like eyes. “Um.”

“Don’t listen to him. From what I’ve heard, you desperately _need _a shopping session,” he flicks Minho’s shirt, and Minho tries to be offended but, well, he’s kind of _right._

“Boys,” his uncle cuts them off effectively right before they open their mouths to scream out more insults to each other, and Minho sighs in relief “Why don’t you let Minho finish his breakfast and then we’ll have a nice, proper conversation in the living room?”

The cat-like guy next to Minho sniffs, visibly deflates at the idea of _not_ insulting his brother back “Fine.”

*

From their ‘nice and proper conversation’ Minho finally learns that Jonghyun—the older brother—is a year older than him, and a head shorter. Kibum, however, is a little taller, and is two months older than him (_"Maknae!”_ Kibum screeches, making a show of thanking the Gods for giving him someone to bully—he spent 17 years being the youngest, after all).

After the introduction, his uncle—Kim Heesung, he finally learns—tells his sons what brings Minho here, and Minho swears he can see tears in Jonghyun’s eyes before he walks off, shouting something about having to pee. Kibum stares at him, then, his eyes unreadable, before shrugging and patting his bicep.

“Welcome to the family.”

Minho nods, but he figures it’d take him a while to really grasp the concept.

*

Minho’s first day at school is actually pretty uneventful (if compared to the morning _before_ they went. He’s forever cringing at how Kibum forces him to sit down and proceeds to style his hair this way and that, saying that his face looks like a frog, but it’s actually an asset and Minho does not know whether he should be proud or insulted) because they’re a bit late, and therefore, he has to go to the Principal’s office alone because Kibum and Jonghyun dash out of the car and into their classes as soon as they got there. Minho loses sight of them in five seconds flat.

Getting his schedule is actually pretty easy—the Principal is a stern-looking woman, middle-aged, very beautiful and very intimidating—and Minho is glad that she asks nothing of his origin (he assumes she already knows some things, but he’s glad she doesn’t pry) and instead send him off with a senior. Said senior is late and Principal Boa had said “Might as well use your first period to guide Minho around the school. It’s not like you actually pay attention to English,” and Minho has never seen a grin that big on someone’s face.

All in all, he now ends up with an excited-looking senior (“My name’s Lee Hyukjae, call me Eunhyuk!”) at his side and a sheet of schedule clutched in his fist. Minho peeks at it; first period is Biology.

“So, biology class is over… there,” Eunhyuk points at the endless hallway, gesturing at Minho to follow him. Minho does, and tries his best not to be intimidated by his surroundings; the school is big, and definitely not the kind of school Minho is used to seeing. The walls are clean and the floor is squeaky. The doors are automatic glass doors, covered with maroon-colored curtains from the inside. Minho gulps, pushing the thought of his old school far at the back of his mind. “Put your bag in here,” Minho’s head snaps up at Eunhyuk’s voice, and the senior stares at him questioningly.

He clears his throat, snapping back to reality. Eunhyuk gives him a key, and Minho takes it. In front of him is a tall locker with his name on plastered on the one furthest left. He turns to look at Eunhyuk, unsure, and points at the door to biology class, and Eunhyuk grins, nodding enthusiastically.

“Yep, Ms. Song is nice, she won’t embarrass you in front of the class or anything,” Eunhyuk says, and something in his tone makes Minho squirms uncomfortably. He can’t tell if Eunhyuk is being sarcastic or not, but the glint in his eyes is not exactly innocent “No, seriously, don’t look at me like that. I mean, she likes pretty faces, but she doesn’t bite.”

Minho coughs, and Eunhyuk chuckles “Go, go.”

“Thanks, sunbae,” he bows, and Eunhyuk claps him on the shoulder, muttering something about unnecessary politeness and he’s not _that_ old before dashing off to his own class. Minho takes a deep breath and steps inside, the door sliding smoothly out of the way. When he opens his eyes again, he’s already standing in front of the class, with 20 pairs of eyes staring at him, and Minho feels as if he’s two feet tall.

“Oh, you must be the new student!” the teacher—Ms. Song, Minho thinks—approaches him with a big smile on her face. She’s young, and very attractive, but there’s also a hint of motherly in the way she smiles at him, so Minho resists the urge to back away. “Why don’t you stand here and introduce yourself?”

Minho nods mutely and steps to the front and center of the class, overly aware of the whispers around him. He clears his throat and looks up, but the sight of about 19 rich kids staring back at him is too much, so he keeps his head down until he feels a hand pushing his chin up, its Ms. Song. She smiles and mouths an “It’s okay,” and Minho jerks away from her touch.

“My name is Choi Minho,” he says to the floor “Nice to meet you.”

He releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s holding when Ms. Song finally allows him to take a seat. He goes through the lines of curious glances and interested hums, before a hand catches his wrist. Minho stops and turns to the culprit, only to find Kibum smirking up at him, jerking his head to the left, where an empty seat is available. Minho nods and takes a seat, taking a deep breath as he tries his best to ignore the gazes thrown at him.

“You are _so_ going to be an easy fish,” Kibum mumbles next to him, and he sounds a little annoyed. Minho turns to him questioningly, but he doesn’t ask, and Kibum doesn’t explain further.

*

The day progresses faster than Minho would’ve thought, with a few introductions here and there and answering occasional questions—Kibum is always right next to him to slap down any overly nosy question, usually with a ‘bitch’ attached at the end of his sentence. Minho thinks Kibum is not unlike a really good guard dog (if guard dog could talk shit as well as he does, of course), but he _also_ knows he won’t survive his wrath if he ever says this out loud.

Kibum drags him to the cafeteria, and the place is nicer than any restaurant Minho has ever been before. He tries not to stare too much at the many, many assortments of food and chooses quickly, before someone comes up next to him and offers a hand.

“Lee Taemin,” the boy offers, his smile blinding. Minho blinks and takes the hand, quickly regaining his composure and getting rid of his surprise. Taemin takes a pack of banana milk and places it on his tray. “You won’t be full with one sandwich and water, hyung,” Taemin chirps, and Minho stares down at his own tray, embarrassed. He isn’t used to so many good foods—he eats a lot when he can, but there aren’t many chances for him to do so—and so he has to fight down the urge to just grab two of each kind, because he _does_ have some decency.

“Um,” Minho says, not knowing what to do when Taemin starts to pile up food in Minho’s tray, as well as his own. When they reach the dessert, Taemin lifts two cups of pudding—chocolate and vanilla—and purses his lips. Minho nods at the vanilla and Taemin grins, taking the chocolate.

“This way I can steal yours if the vanilla turns out to be better,” he beams, and Minho stares, bewildered at Taemin’s friendliness. He talks to Minho as if they’ve known each other for a long time, and Minho—who isn’t really used to human interactions—does not know what to do with it. Taemin doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he nudges Minho’s side and gestures at him to follow his lead, heading to the table where Kibum, Jonghyun, and another guy Minho doesn’t know, sit.

“—and so I told them to fuck off,” Kibum says just as Minho puts his tray down, hesitant. Jonghyun raises his eyebrows at him in greeting, before going back to his cell phone “I think we should slut-proof him. We should slut-proof you,” he adds to Minho, who is blinking widely at the weird topic.

“Language, Kibum,” the nameless guy sighs, and Minho kind of agrees with him. Not that he’s never heard that kind of language before, but it’s just worrying that Kibum is using it in a sentence regarding him. “And he’s a grown man, I’m sure he can handle all the attention. Hi, Lee Jinki,” the guy grins at Minho, offering a hand, and Minho accepts it.

“Choi Minho,” he offers lamely, perfectly aware that Jinki already knows his name. He feels like an idiot, but Jinki doesn’t seem to mind, because he smiles at him, eyes disappearing, and Minho thinks it’s amazing, that smile.

“I know, Kibum babbled about you a lot,” Jinki says, and Minho wants to ask _when_ because he only just knew Kibum for three days. “Oh, and I’m Taemin’s brother,” he adds, sipping on his milk tea. Minho nods, glancing at a beaming Taemin, still staring at him with a worrying level of interest.

“It’s not his fault he’s hot, Kibum, really,” Jonghyun puts down his cell phone and proceeds to devours his lunch. “Besides, Minho might have the chance to break my record, then.”

“What record?” Taemin voices up Minho’s question. Jonghyun grins devilishly at them both.

“Got laid as soon as I got accepted here. I broke Joon hyung’s record, which was 11 weeks.”

“What’s yours?” Jinki asks, once he’s done dying due to a particularly big chunk of nugget sliding into his throat and sends him into a coughing fit.

“8 weeks,” Jonghyun puffs up his chest, and Kibum rolls his eyes. Taemin actually looks impressed, and Minho ducks his head, hiding a smile.

He definitely isn’t going to break that record. He’s not even going to _try._

*

_Minho shoots up from his slumber, body tense as he looks around the dark room. His breath coming faster as his hearing sharpens, catching the dull voices downstairs. Throwing his blanket off his body, he slides off his warm bed and runs out of the room, heading to the living room, where all the noises seems to come from._

_He freezes once he reaches the room, his eyes widening to a comical degree as his mind races over the sight in front of him. There was his mother, struggling against three men holding her, dragging her outside. She’s trashing around and curses, and her eyes bulges out as she caught a sight of her son “RUN, MINHO! RUN!” she screams, desperate and so very, very scared._

_Minho shakes his head, without thinking, he jumps onto the men, beating every part of them he can reach, adrenaline making him wild, dulling out the pain of the blows. He sees red as his mother screams again, and he punches them all down, pulling his mother to cover her, hide her behind his back._

_The room is quiet, then, only filled with the sound of their labored breathing, and Minho turns to face his mother, letting her cups his face in her thin, shaky hands. They stay like that for a while, and Minho thinks that this is probably the longest his mother ever holds him in her arms. She pulls him closer and he curls into her, feeling like a child all over again._

_Their moment shatters, however, when one of the men makes a noise and scrambles up, reaching into his jacket for his gun. Minho turns around and holds his mother tight against his back, covering every inch of her. He stares at the man, eyes glossy and face bloody, and Minho closes his eyes, the bullet cutting through the air and into his chest—_

His eyes snap open and Minho sits up quickly, breathing harsh and ragged. He looks around his bedroom, and outside the window, staring blankly at the dimly-lit backyard. Dropping his face to his hands, Minho throws the blanket away, refusing to acknowledge how familiar the overwhelming wave of paranoia is, despite the fact that there is no screaming downstairs, and this room doesn’t smell like old, damp, moldy paint.

Minho gets off his bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and shaking his head to try and get rid of the vivid scenes and voices. Nightmares are the worst, especially since this is the first time he’s ever had nightmares in years. Long ago, his bad dreams consisted of boogey-man and scary monsters, but this… is much worse.

He finds his way downstairs and heads to the kitchen. He isn’t sure why, but at the back of his mind, he decides that kitchen is the best place. Maybe he’ll find something that would help him go back to sleep, dreamless. Minho isn’t sure if he’s allowed to wander around the house taking foods, but he figures that his aunt and uncle probably won’t even notice. They have tons of food.

Cringing because his footsteps are louder than he intended, echoing through the hallways, Minho walks slower, each step carefully calculated. When he finally reaches his destination, however, he freezes at the sight. There in the kitchen counter is Jonghyun, hunched over a glass of milk and sheets of paper. He looks up when Minho approaches, looking startled.

Minho swallows, staring at his cousin with question in his eyes, ready to go back upstairs if he’s not welcomed here. _Unlikely_, he thinks. He hasn’t known Jonghyun that well, but he has difficulty imagining Jonghyun as a mean, possessive person, regardless.

“Hey,” Jonghyun greets, his voice hoarse from—presumably—sleep “Can’t sleep?” Minho nods and walks closer as Jonghyun gets up and head to the stove. Minho sits next to the stool Jonghyun was previously perched on, peeking on the sheets of paper; music sheets, and Minho is stunned at the half-written lyrics. “Here,” Jonghyun places a mug of warm milk in front of him, and Minho tears his eyes away from the paper to mumble his thanks up at Jonghyun.

The silence stretches between them as Minho busies himself in sipping his milk, focusing on the scratches of Jonghyun’s pencil against the paper, and the occasional tapping when he pauses his writing. The screaming in his head is getting dull now, and Minho feels exhaustion dragging him down once again, though still clouded with fear, with vivid memory of the bullet cutting through his chest.

“You don’t speak much, do you?” Jonghyun mumbles, not looking up from his lyrics. Minho ducks his head, shakes his head when he realizes Jonghyun is watching him from the corner of his eyes. It makes sense now, though, Minho thinks; it makes sense that Jonghyun reacts with tears when he heard about Minho’s reason to come here. Jonghyun is a romantic, maybe a little sensitive, too, from the way he bends words to describe foreign feelings and occurrence—Minho is never good with word, nor is he an expert, but Jonghyun’s lyrics really _are_ wonderful. Sentimental. “Are you into music?”

Minho shakes his head, before pausing to think whether or not his answer could be taken the wrong way; whether or not it’s offensive. Apparently not, though, because Jonghyun nods in understanding, humming a song under his breath—Minho isn’t sure if it’s _his_ song or not, because living in such a small town does not do him any good in the pop culture area.

“Are you into sports?” he asks again, and Minho nods. Jonghyun looks satisfied, thoughtful, making Minho wonder if he’s planning something. This Jonghyun is different, Minho thinks; he looks a little older, and seems a little more mature than the Jonghyun he usually met. Maybe it’s the late night atmosphere, maybe Jonghyun is just content, but Minho likes this side of him a little better.

Kibum’s brashness is already too much to handle without Jonghyun being a cocky bastard, too.

“You know, I think the basketball team is going to recruit some new folks,” he says lightly, and Minho acknowledges it with a hum, sipping some more of his milk. It’s really good; he doesn’t know what Jonghyun adds in there, but it’s _really_ good. “You should give it a try. Do something you like, meet people, build a new life, you know.”

Jonghyun turns to face him fully, then, and he looks serious despite the conversational tone. Minho stares back, feeling small under the intensity of Jonghyun’s gaze. A few seconds later, however, Jonghyun’s face breaks into a smile and he claps Minho on the shoulder. “Not to rush you or anything. Just… think about it, okay?” he seems satisfied when Minho nods, and stands up, taking the dirty glass and music sheets with him.

“Go back to sleep, bro, there’s still a day tomorrow.”

Minho can’t quite understand why Jonghyun’s words put him at ease, but they do, and he sleeps well after.

*

“Oh my God,” Kibum exclaims, sighing. “You are really, _really_ hot,” he shakes his head and shoves another shirt at Minho’s chest. On one of the benches, Jinki snorts, not looking up from the Rubic cube he’s working on— for _fun _(Minho learned that Jinki is a nerd—second best in school—and has participated in almost every single Science Olympiad the school ever got their hands on. He is also, according to Taemin, has been dating Kibum on-and-off for two years), therefore not catching the dirty look Kibum is giving him. “He is! I mean—_God_, you’re so cliché,” Kibum pats the imaginary dusts off the umpteenth shirt Minho has tried today “Coming from a small town, all fresh and naïve, and yet you look like Abercrombie would want you.”

Minho isn’t sure what Abercrombie is, but judging from Kibum’s dreamy sigh, he figures it’s a good thing.

“Thank God you don’t do sweet-talk, or you’d have hordes of fangirls trailing after you,” Kibum has two pairs of shoes in his hands, seemingly thinking which one he should take. Minho eyes the blue one, and Kibum catches his eyes, smirking. Minho ducks his head, the slightest blush tinting his cheeks, but Kibum simply pats his shoulder and places the red one back on the shelves. “I’ve had enough of Jonghyun’s.”

Minho looks at him wide-eyed, and Kibum sighs. “Yes, he does have his own army of fangirls. He’s in a band.”

Well, that makes a lot of sense, Minho thinks, his mind flying back to Jonghyun’s lyrics—Jonghyun had finally showed him the finished product about three days after their late night talk, and Minho was so impressed he actually voiced out his amazement out loud, and Jonghyun had stared at him in disbelief for a full ten seconds before running to find Kibum and brag.

“Jonghyun’s aren’t so bad. You should see Siwon hyung’s,” Jinki butts in and Kibum hums in agreement. Siwon is Jinki’s senior, only just graduated last year; he was the epitome of model student—handsome, unbelievably rich, tall, mysterious, graceful, good grades, great athlete, school president—and Kibum was one of the freshmen who ogled him with stars in his eyes. Not that he ever tells Jinki that.

When they finish shopping, Minho’s whole body is aching; his feet, mostly, and his arms—from carrying so many things. Jinki offered to help carry the bags, but Minho had snatched them away from Jinki rather violently, holding them close to his chest. He didn’t notice the look Jinki and Kibum exchanged with each other, then. Though, really, Minho never saw anything as amazing as _everything_ in this mall before, so sue him for not paying attention to them.

“Long day?” Heesung grins as he sees Minho and Kibum make their way inside the house. Kibum immediately falls face-first to the sofa with a long, satisfied sigh. Minho stares back at him and clutches the bags in his hands tighter. “So, what did you buy?”

“Clothes,” Minho answers simply, and Heesung nods, before his attention is diverted to his wife, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room with an excited squeal. Minho blinks at her, surprised at the noise (though he should know better. Kibum’s loudness must have been inherited from _someone_), but letting her come near him.

However, his reflex kicks in when she reaches down to take his bag, wanting to check the things Kibum chose for him. Minho pulls back, almost as violent as he was with Jinki, and the three other people in the room stare at him. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Minho takes a hasty step back, before looking at his aunt with wary eyes and running upstairs to his room.

Heesung stares at his wife, then turns to his youngest son, who shrugs. “He does that.”

*

When his uncle calls him to his study after dinner, Minho actually considers running away. His hands and feet grow cold, and he’s steadily paling, mind imagining the worst scenarios. Is he mad? Are they going to kick him out because he’s being rude? Where would he live, then? Do Jonghyun and Kibum hate him? Does Jinki? Did he manage to create a huge mess without even realizing it?

“Sit down,” Heesung tells him in a low voice, still warm as ever, but it does nothing to calm Minho’s nerves. He sits on one of the fancy leather couches, rigid and tense, as his uncle paces in front of him, pouring a glass of water and places it in front of Minho, before he, himself, sits down opposite him. “Don’t look so worried, we’re not kicking you out,” he jokes, chuckling. Heesung sobers up pretty quickly, however, when he realizes that his words only make Minho more nervous.

Minho’s brows knit together, and his face scrunches up in equal parts fear, worry, and curiosity. Thankfully, his uncle doesn’t seem to be stalling.

“We seem to have encountered an issue,” he begins, and Minho swallows thickly. “It’s regarding your… behavior.”

Minho squirms in his seat; persistent tears prickling his eyes, making them itch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, son,” Heesung assures him, throwing him a smile, though Minho can see the sadness, the sympathy, in his eyes. “I just don’t understand something, Minho. Will you explain to me if I ask?” Minho lifts a shoulder, and Heesung apparently thinks it’s a good enough answer. “Alright. Well, will you tell me why you don’t want people touching your stuff?”

“Mine,” Minho answers immediately, because isn’t it obvious? They’re his. He doesn’t have many things that he can call _his_.

“Okay, I get it. They’re yours,” Heesung nods in understanding, his tone not faltering one bit. “But we are not going to take what’s yours, Minho, you know that, don’t you?” he says slowly, and Minho stares back at him, impassive and defensive. Heesung frowns, “Someone used to take your things away?”

Minho nods.

“Who?”

Minho shrugs.

“Okay. It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. It’s alright,” he pushes the glass of water closer to Minho, but Minho doesn’t budge. “I just need you to know that no one here is going to take your belongings away from you, okay?”

Minho nods. He understands fully, he really does, but it does not mean he won’t be having a hard time taking down the wall of defensiveness he’s built for so long.

*

“Hyung!” a familiar voice tears through Minho’s focus (or the lack of it) and he turns to find Taemin running to him in an impressive speed, grin wide and hair messy. Minho blinks at him and stops walking, tilting his head as the younger heads closer.

In a split second, Taemin skids in front of him, falling face-first to Minho’s chest, and Minho freezes, eyes wide.

“Hi! I was looking for you!” Taemin waves his hands around, obviously excited, but Minho is too busy controlling his breathing. He takes a step back from Taemin, wide eyes unfocused as the overwhelming urge to _run and hide_ consumes him. Minho closes his eyes, fists clenching on either sides of his body.

_“Hey, Choi!” one of the boys shouted at him, and Minho ignored him, ignored them all. He kept walking, hands gripping the strap of his backpack even tighter. However, the footsteps behind him were getting louder, and the next thing Minho knew, he was being pushed roughly down the dirty road, a foot planted on his chest. He looked up and stared at them—his attacker—with wide, scared eyes as they grinned down at him “Going back to Mommy? She ain’t home, boy.”_

_“Yeah, she probably went with an old ahjussi again,” another one chirped, and Minho glared at him mutely. The first one who yelled at him—he’s the biggest, Minho noted—chuckled at his pathetic glare, and stomped his chest hard, making Minho wheeze and cough as the air was knocked out of him. They laughed, then, and Minho tried to block it all with the only thing he could do; he closed his eyes and let his mind wander somewhere else._

_“Hyung!” Minho’s eyes snapped open, staring at the bullies’ laughing faces. They’re muted—their laughs just a dull sound at the back of his mind now, and Minho frowned “Hyung! Minho—”_

“—hyung?” Minho gasps, his vision now filled with Taemin’s concerned face, with the sun glaring a halo behind him. He shakes himself, realizing now that he’s sitting on the ground, back against a tree, while Taemin is squatting in front of him, guilt and fear clouding his feature. “Are you—are you okay?”

Minho nods and pushes himself up, ducking his head to avoid the curious glances people are throwing at him. He does not even want to imagine what he looked like, what he did, while he was deep in his panic. Taemin makes an odd noise, as if he’s trying to get Minho’s attention, but is too scared for it. Minho turns to him, and his heart clenches at the sight of him, worried and wary, taking a step back when Minho gets closer to him.

“I really didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, voice small. Minho shrugs, wanting desperately to tell him that it’s not his fault, but his throat feels like closing up; it’s hard to even breathe. Taemin looks up, and he doesn’t look so scared anymore—actually, Minho realizes then, Taemin doesn’t really look like he’s scared for himself, he looks like he’s scared for _Minho_. Minho isn’t sure if it’s a good thing—the worry taking over his whole face. “I didn’t know you’re… that you have… well.”

“Me neither,” Minho turns back and away, glad that Taemin doesn’t try to follow him.

*

“It’s not healthy, you know,” Minho jumps about ten feet in the air when Jinki’s voice rings behind him. He turns sharply, journal flying out of his hand. Jinki catches it right before the book hits the floor. For some reason, Jinki looks anxious when he hands the book back to Minho, and he has one moment of wonder, before his mind comes up with the memory—the incident at the mall the other day. Good, Jinki probably thinks he’s a possessive toddler now. “You’ve been skipping lunch these last two days. Your cousins are worried.”

Minho shrugs, resisting the urge to ask why aren’t they searching for him, then, if they’re so worried?

Jinki reads his mind, anyway—well, it’s probably written all over his face, Minho thinks, so it’s not _that_ amazing—because he chuckles, “They don’t know you’re here. I sent Taemin to search for you the other day, because Kibum was freaking out. He said he found you heading here, so.” Minho ducks his head, avoiding Jinki’s gaze. The incident with Taemin was even worse, and _God_, why does he keep embarrassing himself.

“Jonghyun is a wuss, so don’t expect him to climb up here,” Jinki climbs higher, until he’s sitting on a big branch above Minho’s shoulder. Minho looks up at him “And I think Kibum is kind of self-explanatory,” he grins, and Minho smiles at this. Kibum and tree-climbing probably shouldn’t be acquainted, ever.

Jinki stays quiet for a long time, then, and Minho looks up to see him reading something on his phone, glasses firmly in place. From the purse of his lips and the tiny wrinkle between his brows, Minho assumes he’s reading something about science.

The wind blows nicely up here, and Minho is nearly lulled, feet dangling and body slack from relaxation. He’s peaceful and content until Jinki speaks up.

“Taemin told me about your episode yesterday,” he pipes up out of nowhere, and Minho groans inwardly. So much for peace and quiet. “I assume—from the way you’ve been hiding here for two days—you haven’t told anyone?”

Minho shakes his head, because really, what else can he do?

“You know, Minho. Mr. and Mrs. Kim really care about you,” Jinki tells him, his tone dripping with thoughtfulness and maturity that Minho both admires and loathes (because it’s directed at _him_ and _his issues_) “So are Jjong and Kibum. They’re worried about you. I know you think you’re helping by keeping this to yourself, but really,” he stares down at Minho now, and Minho feels so small “You’ll be doing them—and yourself—a huge favor if you’d just tell them the truth.”

Minho tears his eyes away from their eye contact, looking down as Jinki’s words ring in his ears. He sighs “Someday.”

*

The next day, Minho finally gives up hiding and lets Jonghyun drag him to meet his _buddies_. He doesn’t give Minho any explanation, but Minho figures it can’t be that bad, especially since neither Kibum nor Jinki warn him not to go. He just goes with it, and when they finally reach their destination, Minho finds out that said _buddies_ are actually a bunch of basketball players—seniors, mostly, but there are a few juniors, too, from Minho’s classes, even—who perk up at the sight of him.

“Wow,” one of them says, his smile languid and attractive as he glances at Minho, up and down. “You’re actually being useful for once, shorty,” Minho coughs to cover his laugh, and Jonghyun glares at him after attempting to knee the guy in the groin.

“Minho, this is Changmin, basketball team captain,” Jonghyun pats his arm “Asshole, this is my brand new baby brother. Cousin. Whatever. His name’s Choi Minho and he’s naïve as a newborn, so be gentle with him,” Minho frowns indignantly, but he finds that he cannot really object because, well, Jonghyun has a point.

Jonghyun leaves him soon after that, mumbling something about practice before dashing off. Minho is soon engulfed in the many, many people asking questions (which he answers with a nod, a shake of his head, or a shrug) and many, many tests Changmin throws at his direction. By the end of the day, he ditches the sulking and wonders why Jonghyun hasn’t introduced him to this sooner because Minho is _in his goddamn element_.

He comes to the parking lot to meet up with Kibum once he’s done, and grins at the way Kibum is wrinkling his nose at him. He’s sweaty and gross but he has never felt better. Kibum sighs at the wide, wide smile he’s sporting, and gestures at him to get in the car.

*

They are, once again, sitting on their usual spot in the cafeteria, with Taemin telling everyone about his sophomore field trip; arms flailing and eyes twinkling, Minho somehow cannot tear his eyes away from him. Taemin ends his story-telling with a tale of him missing in the museum (Kibum facepalms through the whole thing, while Jonghyun just snorts knowingly. Jinki doesn’t even bother reacting) and proudly explaining how, exactly, he manages to come out alive.

Minho is ducking his head, laughing quietly, when a distinctly familiar voice calls his name (what was his name again—Changmin?) and before he can turn around, a hand smacks his back hard, and Minho’s whole body goes cold. He closes his eyes and clenches his fist, blocking everything out of his vision and hearing. Taking a deep breath, Minho opens his eyes to a concerned-looking Kibum, and Jonghyun in the distance, explaining something to Changmin with a tense expression.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, though he makes zero move to remove Taemin’s hand from his clenched one. Minho shakes his head and takes the bottle of water Kibum offers. He gulps it down to a half and takes a deep breath, finally calming down. He hates it. Hates his reaction. Hates his weakness. Hates the fact that the people around him now treat him like he’s fucking made of glass.

It’s just a damned smack to the back—a friendly move, for fuck’s sake—and he isn’t supposed to be so worked up over it. Minho knows this isn’t a new thing; his anxiety isn’t exactly newfound. But it was never this bad. Back in his old town, once he’s out of middle school, no one bullies him anymore (growth spurt is a magical thing) but also no one talks to him anymore. He’s not used to human interactions, and here, where everyone is social and friendly and curious, he’s overwhelmed.

“Wanna take a walk?” Taemin’s voice drags him back to reality, and Minho is a little surprised to find him so close; he can see the thin layer of BB cream Taemin uses, and the way it makes him look less porcelain-like (Minho’s seen him without make up, two days ago, when he comes over to drag Kibum to accompany him buy a new DVD of some movie. He looks almost deathly pale) and a little tanner. It’s a good look on him; healthier, Minho thinks.

He nods before he knows it, and Minho is surprised that he doesn’t really mind the way Taemin is gripping his hand the whole time, leading him to his hiding spot.

*

“You can trust us, you know,” a voice says just as Minho steps out of the bathroom. He can’t even bring himself to be surprised anymore, he’s just hyper-aware of his surroundings now, because Kibum and Jinki love to pop out of nowhere at school, and Minho doesn’t put it above Kibum to do it at home, too. “I mean, I know I haven’t been the best big brother,” Minho snorts at this, and Kibum glares, “I _am_ older than you, stop laughing. Back to the point; I know I haven’t been the best big brother, not that there’s any competition, because Jjong is worse, I would know, I spent 17 dreadful year being his brother—_anyway_, you can trust us. Me. _Us_. Whatever.”

Minho sits on the bed, next to Kibum’s sprawled form, and rubs the towel on his hair absently. Kibum pokes on his thigh “I’m not nosy. I don’t _try_ to find out about people, people try to find out about me. But you—I want to know you,” he props his chin up on his palm, looking up at Minho, “I know that previous your life wasn’t all that pleasant.” Minho looks a little defensive, but Kibum simply raises an eyebrow “That you have some scars you’re trying to hide—which is totally unnecessary. Really, Minho, why do you do that?”

Minho stares at him in question, and Kibum rolls his eyes, “Don’t go all wide-eyed on me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Why are you hiding it from us?”

Minho doesn’t provide him with an answer, instead busying himself with choosing a T-shirt and fiddling with his jeans and brand new socks. Kibum flips around on his bed, waiting, and starts making noises when Minho keeps ignoring him.

Minutes pass and Kibum can’t take it anymore. He chucks a cushion at Minho’s head, watching as the younger boy sighs and walks back to Kibum, who grins up at him from his horizontal position. Minho sits next to his head and Kibum jumps up to a sitting position. “Well?”

“What do you want to know?”

“That was—oh my God, did you actually just utter _a full sentence!?”_ Kibum shrieks, cupping Minho’s face in his hands, excitement practically oozing out of him. “I _have_ to rub it in Jonghyun’s smug face later. By the way, the answer to your question is everything, _duh_.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. Kibum pouts.

“You know I won’t stop trying to dig it out of you,” Kibum scoffs, rolling his eyes at Minho’s smile (though he can’t really help the identical smile stretching across his face either).

*

“A little bird told me you made it to the team?” Jonghyun slams his fists to Minho’s table, making the things that were previously perched on the flat surface rattle and even roll off onto the floor. Jonghyun ignores this. Minho sighs. “Minho. Minho, c’mon. Minho Minho Minho, _Minho—_”

“I did,” he cuts Jonghyun off, and the older boy grins, wide and mischiveous as he ruffles Minho’s hair—he does so when Minho’s bending over to pick up his fallen pen, the sneaky bastard—and completely ignores Minho’s scowl.

“Good,” he claps his hands once. “We’re throwing a party.”

Minho blinks. Jonghyun grins. Minho opens his mouth, then closes it again. Jonghyun pats his shoulder and flees out of Minho’s classroom.

*

“This is like, a _gathering_, not a party,” Taemin comments, slurping loudly on his Pepsi. He’s perched on one of Kibum’s many, many colorful bean bag sofa, looking a little sleepy after his third helping of Happy Meal—he even devours half Jinki’s nuggets and three-quarters of Kibum’s fries. He would have taken Jonghyun’s, but the last time he tries to do so, Jonghyun smacks him so hard upside the head that Taemin thinks he’s losing a few thousand brain cells—with his feet swinging up and down lazily, and chin nearly touches his chest.

“Mom and Dad are still home,” Kibum waves him off, flipping another page of the newest Vogue Jinki bought him this afternoon, all the while Jinki is hand-feeding him strawberries (Minho is not-so-discreetly staring at them. Not entirely sure what to think of that scene). “Besides, we’re here to celebrate Minho officially _getting a life_. It’s a monumental day.”

“Damn right it is,” Taemin slurps the rest of his Pepsi—there’s really not much left, and so the noise is utterly gross—and tosses it to the trash can without looking. He straightens up and focuses his attention on Minho. “One rule, though.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at him, glad that he has a distraction good enough to force him to look away from Jinki and Kibum.

“You’re not allowed to be a) a whore; and b) an ass. Jonghyun hyung exceeds both quotas already,” he says seriously, ignoring Jonghyun’s indignant yell. Minho chokes on his own laugh, shaking his head in exasperation. “No, I’m serious. You are _not_ going to sleep with _every_one in scho—wait. Wait. _Whoa_.” Taemin lifts a hand, face frozen in something akin to wonder.

Minho tilts his head in question, and Taemin’s grin spread like wildfire. There’s mischief in his eyes, and Minho can’t help but wonder if four cups of Pepsi could get you drunk, because Taemin probably is. Or maybe it’s just the caffeine making him hyper.

“Tae, _what_.” It’s Jinki, sounding annoyed at Taemin’s dramatic stalling. Minho flicks a glance at him and makes a face when he realizes Jinki didn’t even turn away from Kibum.

“Are you a _virgin_?”

Minho’s face burns at the question, and Jonghyun snorts indecently loud. Taemin’s grin is positively wicked now. He stares at Minho expectantly, one eyebrow raised. For a moment, his usual innocent aura is completely wiped off. Minho wonders if that one is actually an act. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he shoots back, still burning with embarrassment but feeling oddly bold under Taemin’s challenging smirk.

Kibum barks a laugh at that. “Atta boy!”

Taemin’s eyes glints with something foreign, but he settles down, humming as he reaches for Kibum’s leftover Pepsi. Jinki is saying something about death from too much carbonated drink, and Jonghyun has begun to pick at his ukulele in his corner, while Kibum continues to flick through his magazine, unbothered. Minho grins quietly, relishing in the hum of the now-familiar activities around him with something akin to contentment.

He hasn’t got everything figured out. Not yet. But he’s getting there. For the first time in forever, Minho is certain of his future.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Minho's mom died. Yes, he knew before he went to Seoul. Yes, he's in denial.


End file.
